


Brown

by bananasandroses (achuislemochroi)



Series: Whofic [36]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 3X13 (Last of the Time Lords), Angst, Battle of Canary Wharf, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Original Character(s), Other, POV Original Character, Tenth Doctor Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-15
Updated: 2009-10-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achuislemochroi/pseuds/bananasandroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On this day of days, where else could he be but here?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brown

**Author's Note:**

> Originally envisaged as the first part of a trio, this currently stands alone.

_Brown_

The first time I saw him was just after the incident on that airborne aircraft carrier – you know the one, the one that looks like something you’ve once seen on _Captain Scarlet_ or something when you were a kid.  I can’t remember the name of it, or what happened, really; the only thing that sticks in my mind is how the US President had somehow got himself killed on it.  Still, no matter; I’m only using it as a point of reference in any case – like people still do about where they were when Kennedy was assassinated, y’know?

That isn’t what I remember most clearly about it, in any case.  The suit the man was wearing is imprinted on my brain – or if not the suit, then the _smell_ of it.  God knew what had happened to the man wearing it, and if the smell of it was anything to go by then I am _glad_ not to know.

The only thing about him that looked even vaguely normal was the bunch of pink carnations dangling from his hand, and he seemed to be clinging to them as if his very life depended upon his holding on to them.  His hair had seemed no better than the suit – bits sticking up here, there and everywhere and the smell of it as bad, if not worse.

He was in a right state; not quite all there, really, if you know what I mean.  Didn’t seem quite able to walk on his own, for whatever reason, either; two others had to hold him up – a fella in an Air Force greatcoat and a girl, who seemed to be younger than either of the other two, in what appeared to be military surplus kit.  Neither of his companions seemed overjoyed to be there, either; both seemed to be trying to talk him out of it – I’d like to _think_ they were trying to persuade him to have a bath, or at least to get rid of that suit! – but he seemed to have his mind made up.

His companions got him fairly close to the memorial – his determination to reach it makes me think, now I’ve had the chance to mull it over, that whoever was on there for him might be the reason he was in that mess.  God knows I’ve seen plenty of people unable to cope with what happened at Canary Wharf, poor messed-up sods.  When he was close to the part of the memorial he wanted he said something to them and they let him totter the last few steps alone.

He was right next to me by this time – well how _else_ d’you think I knew how his hair smelt, hmm? – and his legs suddenly seemed to lose the ability to hold him up, ’cause next thing I knew he’d fallen heavily to his knees.  He didn’t seem to notice the pain (and it must have hurt); he just placed his flowers gently on the ground, as near to the bottom of the memorial as he could get, and began to seek out the name he was looking for.  I could tell when he found it; his fingers reached for the marble – why do they _always_ make these things out of marble? I find it unpleasantly cold to the touch, but maybe that’s just me – and traced the letters ever so gently with his fingertips for a few seconds before he dropped his hand.  I could see he was weeping then, the way his shoulders shook was unmistakable, and I didn’t know what to do.  I didn’t know him at all, and so didn’t know how he’d react if I did or said anything.

I’ve rarely felt more helpless, and that’s saying something, but it didn’t matter much.  One of his companions – the one in the Air Force kit – must have twigged that something had gone awry because he was moving to be beside him in the time it took me to drum up the courage to consider doing something myself.  I’m sorry to say that I was glad when the fella showed up, meaning that he could deal with his friend and I wouldn’t have to.  I tell myself these days it was because I couldn’t bear the smell of the suit, but I was a coward and I know it.

I saw the man say something to the one on his knees and then drop to his knees himself in order to bring him comfort; it didn’t seem to matter how smelly the man was, and of course why should it have done?  The last thing I saw before I turned away was the Air Force man pulling the weeping man into a hug and rocking him back and forth to comfort him.  I’ve never felt more ashamed of myself in my life than I did – _do_ – about how I just crawled away without saying a word.  I hoped the ground would swallow me whole – it’s not something I like to talk about.

I _certainly_ never expected to see any of them again.

  



End file.
